Consider This the Slip
by Konstantya
Summary: Oh, life is bigger, it's bigger than you, and you are not me... (Or, Lore contemplates sex and doesn't know how to deal with his emotions—but he's trying, the poor boy. He's trying. Lore/Ishara. Follows the relationship previously established in "Built Upon Sand" and "Castles.")


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**Consider This the Slip**

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Orgasms, Lore decided, were curious things.

He'd had his sexual programming since start-up, so he'd understood the mechanics of sex for the entirety of his existence—what went where, the differences between male and female, et cetera, et cetera—but, intriguingly enough, it turned out that actually running his sexuality program was significantly different from simply being aware of the information contained within it.

In hindsight, it seemed like a rather obvious conclusion, but really, how was he to know? After all, he'd never had the opportunity to make use of it on Omicron Theta, and after the experiences of his so-called 'childhood' there…well…why would he have wanted to? Sex was something organics did, to propagate their disgusting species, or else because they craved the physical intimacy and the heady rush of chemicals that came with it. He didn't need any of that—was _better_ than all of that—so why would he have lowered himself to such base and weak behavior?

He knew, intellectually, that it was supposed to be pleasurable, and once upon a time, far far back in his youth, he'd actually tried stimulating himself, as he knew human males were often wont to do. The exercise had been…not unpleasant, exactly, but thoroughly unimpressive, especially when stacked up against everything he'd heard and read on the subject. Certainly not worth repeating, as far as he'd been able to tell.

Of course, it might have helped if Soong had bothered to explain the _details_ of his sexual programming. It was all well and good that he knew how to perform various techniques and positions, that he knew the signs of sexual arousal and could recognize when a person was approaching climax—a rundown of the reactions _he_ might feel from sex would have been nice. (Though probably, Lore thought, with a measure of bitter amusement, the old man had wanted him to discover those on his own.)

Well, he had now, and the experience was…interesting, he supposed? At the risk of giving his father too much credit, he might even go so far as to describe it as…enjoyable?

It was a messy business, to be sure (good Lord, why did organics have to produce so many _fluids?_), but if one could get beyond that, well…it wasn't really that bad. At the very least, it was unlike anything else he'd ever encountered; he would say that much. To be honest, he was tempted to think the mental diversion alone was worth the increased amount of showers the activity necessitated. Because that was the blessing and the curse of having a positronic brain, wasn't it? Because even as he was fucking his partner-in-crime senseless, he could still run maintenance programs and plan course headings and analyze schematics he'd previously downloaded. But it just so happened that the longer his sexuality subroutines were engaged, and the more processing power he devoted to them, the more difficult such multitasking became. The sensory input would start to become overwhelming, culminating in what he could only describe as an overload—his synapses firing too fast, and his neural net briefly shorting out, and his mind miraculously, _blissfully_ going blank for a second.

He'd immediately run a diagnostic after that first time, worried he might have damaged something, but everything came back clear, assuring him that he was operating within normal parameters. Oh, sure, his processors were running a little hot, but not dangerously so. Not to the extent that his temperature couldn't be fixed with a few deep breaths.

The second time had been purely to satisfy his curiosity about the whole experience. Was that really what was supposed to happen? Could such a reaction genuinely be considered 'standard' for him? It was two days later, they hadn't spoken or even seen each other at all in that time, and he'd caught her in the corridor. She'd just come from the shower and was about to enter her cabin when he put a hand on her waist, pressed her against the door, and kissed her. She hadn't resisted, had actually leaned into him, and after a couple minutes of exploring her neck and feeling her pulse quicken beneath his lips, she'd sighed and dropped her towel of her own accord. He'd consequently palmed the door open and pushed her back to the bed, determined to try this somewhere other than up against a wall.

After that, it almost became a game—something to pass the time between star systems, and a welcome distraction from the anger and anxiety that was constantly pinging in the back of his circuits. Because even with all the knowledge he'd been programmed with, there was still so much to learn. The optimal pressure with which to pinch her nipples, for instance, and how that pressure could change depending on her level of arousal. The exact way to angle her hips when inside her, such that her mouth would fall open and her nails would dig into him. How many orgasms she could handle before her legs would start shaking and her breath would start coming in sobs. It was intoxicating, the sheer _power_ he could have over her, and what was perhaps even more intoxicating was her sheer _willingness_ to give into him. To give into _him,_ an android. An artificial construct.

Even now, sleeping beside him as she currently was, her unconscious state was one born from exhausted satisfaction. He'd been about to get up to go wash when she'd reached out a tired arm and whispered, "Stay," and hell if he knew why, but he'd actually obliged her. And so there he was, stretched out next to her on the narrow bunk. She was turned towards him on her side, breathing deeply and evenly, one hand tucked near her head and the other flopped down between their legs.

He supposed she was attractive, as far as human women went. All of the usual qualities were there, at least: a lean body, full breasts and hips, a defined waist, symmetrical features. Her skin was marked with various scars—some recent, some not—but he doubted they were enough to detract from her overall appearance. And he didn't care much about appearances, anyway, so.

He didn't care much about appearances, but he still found himself observing hers out of a lack of anything better to do. Her hair had grown in the time they'd been together, and though she'd gotten it cut once already, it looked like she was on the verge of needing another. A disheveled lock of it had tumbled over her cheek, and—again, mostly because he didn't have anything better to do—he reached out to brush it back. She stirred slightly at the movement, turning her head a little further into his hand, her lips brushing lightly against his synthetic skin. He didn't have a heart that could skip beats in response, but something seemed to _hitch_ inside him all the same.

It wasn't the first time it had happened, and he couldn't say he particularly enjoyed the feeling. It was too close to _wanting,_ and while Lore wanted many things, a silly little human shouldn't have been one of them. For a moment, he considered—as he had numerous times before—simply killing her and being done with it, but it turned out he just couldn't make himself go through with it right then. Ultimately didn't _want_ to go through with it right then.

Why did she even stay with him? Was the sex really that good? And even supposing it was, was that really enough, such that it would outweigh everything else? After all, she definitely didn't stick around because his personality was so pleasant. And he had a hard time believing it was for reasons related to sheer survival—he was stronger, faster, and smarter than her, true, but it was also true that she was surprisingly capable of holding her own. Certainly capable _enough_ to not have to worry about putting up with him if she really didn't want to.

So was that what it came down to, at the end of the day? Did she, in fact, _want_ to? Did she maybe even—dare he think it—want _him?_

There it was again—that little hitch in his chest. Sometimes it made his respiratory functions unsteady, and he hated it—hated that something could have control over his own body like that, even if it _was_ a normal response for him, and—

He almost barked out a laugh at that. For fuck's sake, he was an android; there wasn't anything 'normal' about him. First he'd been 'extraordinary,' and then his father had shifted to 'malfunctioning.' The colonists hadn't even been _that_ charitable, and had instead jumped straight to 'evil'—with the exception of those who were still harping on about how he was just a machine, that was. Just a machine, not even alive, not _really,_ not in a way that counted, with flesh and blood and bone and—

He ground his teeth and raked a hand through his hair, gripping it in his fist. He knew from experience that if he tore a chunk out, an internal alarm would go off—a tiny little warning, alerting him to the damage—and it would be something, but it wouldn't be enough. Not enough to tear his damnably superior mind away from the thoughts and memories that had brought him there in the first place, at least. He looked back over at Ishara and suddenly reached out to her, letting his hand trace over the familiar contour of her hip bone, letting his fingers trail down to the apex of her thighs, at which point he a slipped a single digit in between her folds. She was still slick from earlier, and slowly, he explored her—her wet heat, her still-swollen flesh, the sensitive patch of curls that topped the whole package off.

She stirred at the touch, her legs instinctively parting, and just as her eyelids fluttered open and she fully woke, he slid two fingers inside her. She moaned, just as he knew she would, and he slanted his mouth over hers, trapping the sound inside. Drowsily, she braced her hand against his shoulder, and he worked her deeply, languidly, dipping in and out, rubbing lazy little circles until she was clutching at him and moving her hips in time with his fingers.

He idly wondered if he'd ever get tired of her—of the helpless little noises she would make and the flush he could literally feel radiate out from her core. Somehow, it hadn't happened yet.

"Christ," she panted, when he finally broke away from her mouth, "can't you ever let me sleep?"

"Not if you want me to stay in bed with you. I get bored."

Her breathing was getting heavier, and even as consciousness reasserted itself, coherent thought seemed to be getting more difficult for her. Still, she managed to sarcastically push out, "So you're saying this is _my_ fault."

"Of course it is," he said, and in a lot of ways it _was_. Her fault for wanting to leave Turkana IV with him. Her fault for coming back to his ship on Dima III. Her fault for kissing him, and then wanting to be kissed by him again. Her fault for tugging his shirt off, and putting her hands all over him, and making him feel _wanted_. From a certain point of view, she'd created as much of a monster as his father had upon first building him. The only difference—and Lore was inclined to think it was a big one—was that Ishara Yar, for all her token protests and complaints, didn't actually seem to _mind_ all that much.

Really, he should have gone to the cockpit and checked their heading—the navigation system on this godforsaken rig could be fussy sometimes—but he found it just wasn't worth it. Not yet, not when she was still gripping his shoulders and rocking her hips in rhythm with his hand and implicitly asking for more. He considered taking his time and teasing her into a frenzy—bringing her right to the brink but never over—until she was desperate and begging for it. Her hands would pull at him, her body would arch into his, and she'd insult him with such delightfully common curses, as if he was no different from any other man out there. As if she literally didn't care about and couldn't be bothered by the fact that he was made up of wires and circuits and servos. Sometimes he wondered if he loved her for that, or if he even knew what love was, if he was even capable of recognizing it within himself.

It didn't matter, he decided. In that moment, it was enough that he could make her fall apart with his fingers, could make her gasp and grind her hips up into his, could make her head tip back and her eyes go wide and her limbs tremble with the pleasure he gave her. So he rolled on top of her, wedged a knee between her legs, activated his sexuality subroutines, and kissed her.

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A/N: Oh, Lore. You wonder if you love a gal, but then just a few paragraphs above you were like, "Idk, maybe I should kill her?" In your own way, though, I suppose it's progress.

In other news, I'm not usually one for writing sex, but so much of their relationship is based around it, it turns out it's hard to avoid! Which is to say, I hope y'all are enjoying this recent bout of smut, pfft.


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